Perils of Hunting
by WingedWarrior16
Summary: When a hunting trip goes awry, not everyone gets out alright. What lengths will the Winchesters go to to save a friend? Set after 8x19, "Taxi Driver". Cas is back.
1. Chapter 1

The door slammed open, hitting against the faded flower-printed wallpaper of the dingy motel room. Moonlight streamed in, dimly lighting the small room as three men stumbled through. Two men, one much taller than the other, supported the third as they all but dragged themselves inside. Mud tracked in behind them, following them from the door to one of the twin-sized beds lining the wall. The two men still standing dropped the third on the bed gracelessly.

"Sam, lights," said the shorter of the two, his tone quiet and curt.

The taller one, Sam, went back quickly, flicking on the lights and locking the door, leaving streaks of blood on the white door and switch. By the time he had returned to the bed, his brother was cataloguing their friend's wounds, medical kit already in hand.

"This is bad, Dean," whispered Sam as he came back. The two stood over their friend, slowly pulling back the cloth covering the wounds. "This is really bad."

"He's going to be fine," he growled out, though he did not move his eyes from the work in front of him.

In front of them was a broken and bloodied Angel. There were lines of cuts covering his torso, his usual button-down now in ribbons. The fabric was quickly disposed of, joining the already discarded tan trench coat on the floor. Castiel's skin was more red than its usual tan, blood still flowing freely from the gouges; his eyes were closed, though what worried the Winchester brothers the most was that their friend was, and had been, completely unresponsive ever since he zapped them back to their beloved Impala.

He wasn't dead - it was clear that he was breathing, heavy and labored, just as his heartbeat was weak but steady.

The brothers worked past their own wounds trying to patch up their friend. Frequently, they had to wipe their own hands of their own blood for fear of it mixing into the Angel's. Their hands moved feverishly as they cleaned and bandaged the Angel in front of them, neither of them saying much. After a while, there was nothing more for the two to do besides wait.

It was all up to Castiel and whatever fight he had left in him.

Dean pulled up a chair from the rickety kitchenette, dropping himself down heavily. "Sam," he motioned to his brother, silently telling him it was his turn to get fixed up. His little brother walked over, pulling out the chair next to him and propping his elbow up on the table.

With a practiced ease and a gentleness shown only to his little brother, Dean worked insistently on the gash marring Sam's upper arm. The blood had long since dried, leaving long crusted trails down his tanned arm that Dean wiped away easily.

Once Dean was finished, Sam switched places, making Dean stay seated as he tried to catalogue the worst of his older brother's wounds.

Dean tried to insist that he was fine and didn't need assistance, but Sam ignored him, by now used to his brother's stubbornness; he simply placed a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him seated. The older Winchester sat, but he was anything but cooperative, all impatient hands and shifted eyes, looking from Sam's progress on the myriad of bruises, cuts, and scrapes peppering his chest to the unconscious Angel still laying motionless on the bed.

Sam understood his concern perfectly (every once in a while he'd give a glance over to their friend too) but it did nothing to stifle his frustration: every time Dean would move, whatever Sam was doing would get messed up and he would have to restart.

"Dammit, Dean," he said, roughly putting down the needle and roll of bandages he had been working with. "I can't stitch you up if you keep moving."

Dean's head snapped towards his brother. He struck a face that could rival even the best of Sam's, "I told you I was fine, Sam. I don't need all this."

"But you're not fine. You can't sit still, you're covered in blood, there's cuts all over you - you're hurt. As much as you want to hide it, you are. So shut up and sit."

"News flash, Sammy, we're _always_ hurt. It's our _job_ to get hurt and you and I both know I've had way worse than this. I don't need to be taken care of, I just..." Dean ran a hand through his short hair. He kept his eyes on the table in front of him. "I just need Cas to wake up."

"I know, D-"

"No, Sam, you don't know!" Dean stood up, knocking the cheap chair to the ground behind him. Sam jumped. "This is all my fault, okay? You getting sliced, this crappy motel room, Cas - all of it! If it weren't for me, he would still be awake and fluttering around somewhere."

"It wasn't your fault - "

"Of course it was my fault! I'm the one who got the call that Kevin was here, I'm the one who convinced you it was a sound lead, I'm the one who let Cas come with us - "

Sam stood up too, now, "But you're not the one who thought the Tablet was in the factory, were you? And you weren't the one who interrogated the demon to get that information either. I was." He paused for a moment. "We were fooled, Dean. All of us."

"Well then we shouldn't have been! We should know by now; we've been fooled our whole lives by these things! And every time, we go in too early or we're outmanned or outgunned or just plain in over our heads and it always ends up the same: someone dies. Somebody close to us. Mom, Dad, Jess, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Benny, Anna, hell, even each other. I can't do it again, Sammy, not with Cas. They played us. They played us good and we just let them."

Dean hung his head a moment, as he stood in the middle of the dingy motel room. His clothes were still stained from his own wounds, as well as a heavy puddle soaked into his side from where he held up Cas.

"We couldn't have known, Dean," Sam said softly, his eyes imploring.

Dean looked at him, stepped back, and sagged onto the free bed as if he could no longer support the rest of his body. His legs sprawled in front of him, his back bowed over, he looked younger than Sam could ever remember seeing him.

"They knew. They knew we lost Kevin, they knew that we would follow any lead, no matter how slight. And they knew Cas would be with us. They had Angel Blades, for Christ's sake." Dean's voice was little more than a whisper, and he did not raise his head.

Sam watched his brooding brother, and for once could think of nothing to say. Nothing would make this situation better, nor were there any words to lessen the Winchesters's guilt - either brothers'. So, together, they sat in silence. Together they sat in the small, dimly lit, dirty motel room, with nothing to say and nowhere to go, with only each other, and a sleeping, barely-there Fallen Angel.

XxX


	2. Chapter 2

**Previously:**

_Sam watched his brooding brother, and for once could think of nothing to say. Nothing would make this situation better, nor were there any words to lessen the Winchesters's guilt - either brothers'. So, together, they sat in silence. Together they sat in the small, dimly lit, dirty motel room, with nothing to say and nowhere to go, with only each other, and a sleeping, barely-there Fallen Angel._

__XxX

Castiel's blue eyes snapped open, his arm sweeping back the comforter draped over him. He couldn't remember putting it there. Or, for that matter, he couldn't remember laying confused Angel tried to sit up but stopped at the sharp bursts of pain shooting up his chest. He stayed still a moment longer to brace himself before trying again; his arms shook under his weight and his breath came out in harsh pants, but he managed to sit himself up.

The room around him was unfamiliar and much too dark for his liking. The moldy old curtains were drawn, prohibiting any light from entering, though Castiel could feel that it was closer to morning than it seemed. There was a deep ache within his bones, an exhaustion that is not so easily cured in a night or two. He felt as though he had slept for days, but still needed more.

Rolling his body Cas planted his bare feet to the floor, shifting himself to the very edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath to center himself, he pushed himself upright.

Castiel stood for three seconds at the most before his legs gave out under him. The Angel groaned low and deep as he fell back against the bed, the mattress caving in around his form. Cas had never been in a situation quite like this before, where he could not make his vessel do what he wanted. He closed his eyes to try to collect himself again, to muster all of his angelic-will to get him out of this small, claustrophobic room before anyone found him; he tried to fly away, to get some perspective and figure out what was going on, but only succeeded in sounding the cuckoo clock in the corner, the lap flickering three times in quick succession. Even that small burst of power left him drained and sagging onto the bed.

Around him, there was an immediate bustle of activity: in the darkest part of the room - a doorway maybe? - there was a thump, followed by a scrape and rushed, booted footsteps. From behind came a softer, but no less alarming, rustling and creak, along with the unmistakeable scratch of metal before the room was drenched in light.

The previously unrecognizable room was now doused in light from the lamp on the nightstand between the matching twin beds. On one sat Castiel and on the other, a very alert Sam Winchester, one hand outstretched towards the light, the other firmly holding the demon Ruby's old knife. His long hair was oddly flattened from sleep, his eyes wide and on guard. He must have been in the middle of a deep sleep.

In the opposite end of the motel room, Dean Winchester stood, his legs spread, face much more awake and alert than his brother. He was still fully dressed, his boots laced and tied: he had obviously not been sleeping. His arms were straight and steady as he leveled his 1911 directly at Castiel.

The air was tense for a moment as the three looked between each other. Castiel sat quietly, looking at the weapons being pointed at him with little to no intimation of discomfort. He had known the brothers for years now and knew that they wouldn't shoot unless there was more probable cause than a bump in the night.

But then again...

Sam was the first to drop his guard, thinking through the thick fog of sleep before launching himself up and off of his bed, leaving the knife on his pillow. The younger Winchester brother strode around Castiel's bed until he was right in front of him, bending down to what had to be an uncomfortable height to look at Cas's face.

"Hey, Cas, you back with us now?" he asked gently.

Castiel looked hard at the other man, disregarding the question. "Where are we?" he asked; the Angel's voice, rough on any given day, came out deep and grating, though if his throat hurt because of it he gives no indication.

Sam looked taken aback, glancing towards his brother still in the doorway before back to Cas, his long hair flipping as he did. "Oh, uh, in a motel," he said. "Just outside of town."

"We have to leave. Now," ordered the Angel, pushing himself up with renewed determination. Sam stood from where he was crouched, surprised by the sudden movement. Castiel stumbled, bracing himself on Sam's shoulder, but staying on his feet nonetheless.

From the kitchenette, Dean raced forward towards the pair, going to the opposite side as his brother. The eldest Winchester gripped Cas' elbow to help support him, but the Angel pulled roughly from his hold. He tried to step forward, away from the hunters, staggering a bit but holding his own weight now.

"Cas?" Dean asked. It was the first word he had said since Cas had woken up. He sounded hesitant, like Castiel was a wounded animal ready to bolt at any moment. The hunter raised his hands in surrender, trying to soothe him.

"It's not safe here," Cas said, and Dean was reminded of when they had first met all those years ago. Cas had sounded just like that - firm, confident, assured - whenever he spoke. And after all the shit that had gone down since that night in the barn, it had been a long time since Dean had heard Cas sound like that. "We have to leave."

The two brothers knew the situation had to be handled delicately. They weren't sure exactly what was going on, but they had an all-powerful, skittish, Fallen Angel in front of them, insisting they all leave their relatively safe motel room to go God-knows-where, not even a day after being lured and ambushed by a pack of demons in an elaborate coup. As much time as Dean and Cas spent together and how much the two shared, both brothers knew that Sam was much better equipped for dealing with him at the moment.

"Cas," Sam said in his soothing voice. It was usually reserved for their trickier cases when an ordinary person had seen too much and had to be told there was more out there than they ever could have dreamed. "Cas, look at me." Cas turned his bright blue eyes to Sam's, making the hunter a tad unnerved. "This motel room... It's as safe as anywhere else around."

The Angel looked around, searching now with a purpose, noting all the tell-tale hunter precautions he had previously overlooked : there were salt lines following the windowsill and lining the door, spread so deeply into the old carpet that the grains would surely never come out; there was a floor mat just a step further inside the room, past the salt line, that Cas would be his wings had a Devil's Trap written on the underside; the door was dead-bolted, the "Do Not Disturb" sign that hung on the singular nail protruding from the back of the door was conspicuously missing, replaced instead with a small rag from the bathroom to cover the backside of the peephole.

Sam and Dean watched the Angel as he surveyed the room carefully. Slowly, Sam took a step - pausing and showing his hands when Cas started - before walking towards the space between the two beds. With narrowed eyes Castiel watched as Sam reached down and picked up a faded green canvas bag. It clanked with unknown contents as the younger Winchester placed it unceremoniously on the closest bed before unzipping it with ease. As soon as the duffel was open, various guns, both sawed off and whole, knives, and more than a few salt-filled rounds fell out.

"Not to mention..." Sam said, reaching behind him to untuck his personal gun from under the pillow he had been sleeping on, unsheathing the magazine, showing a full litany of bullets. Tossing his gun on the bed, he gave Dean a pointed look, who followed his brother in relinquishing his hidden weapon onto the bed and drawing out his personal flask from a jacket pocket.

"Holy Water," he clarified, shaking it out as Cas before tossing it alongside Ruby's old knife Sam had pulled from inside his jacket.

Dean crossed his arms after a moment of silence, "There's more in the kitchen if you'd like to check, but this isn't our first rodeo, Cas. We know how to proof a room." As if to prove his point, Dean bent down at the corner of the nightstand, picking up not only one, but two hex bags.

Cas shook his head, "This may have worked for you in the past, but this time is different." He received blank looks from both brothers. Cas rolled his eyes, asking for patience, "This town has a population of only 6,872, and less than an appropriate amount of motels such as this. It's only a matter of time until they come searching for you - you two may feel protected here, but when this establishment is surrounded, lacking food and ammo, you will feel differently."

"Cas, you can hardly even walk. If we do leave - and that's a pretty big 'if' - will you even be able to get anywhere?" Dean asked cautiously.

The Angel rolled his eyes, "I am an Angel of the Lord, Dean. A warrior of Heaven. I can and have handled worse wounds than this."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, trying to figure out their next move. It was true that since Cas had Fallen for them, sometimes it was difficult to remember that he actually was a soldier. Cas, their little guardian angel was actually trained to fight - to kill - demons and humans and other fully grown angels.

"I did not risk my life for you two only to have you foolishly throw them away," Castiel stepped forward, raising a hand. "Now, are you going to leave or should I-"

"Woah, woah!" Dean held up both hands, signaling the angel to halt.

Sam looked between the two, not quite comprehending, but following his brother's lead and stepping back nonetheless. Cas lowered his arm slowly, his head tilting slightly to the side in an all too familiar fashion.

"We talked about the zapping, Cas," Dean said, never taking his eyes from the blue ones in front of him. He'd been looking at those eyes for years now, and he should be used to them, he really should; he should be used to the way it pierces through him, making Dean squirm and fidget in the simplest of glances, how it feels as if Cas is peeling back the layers that makes Dean _Dean,_ unwrapping everything about him - every sarcastic remark, every lie - to reveal the very basis of himself. For a while it felt as if Dean had gotten past it, but in times like these, when Cas squints just so that his eyes get the slightest of crinkles, and the head tilt that makes his already messy hair bend and sway across his forehead, it all comes rushing back and any progress Dean thinks he made flies right out the window.

So when Sam shifted his eyes between the two men, uttering a quiet "Dean?", Dean is instantly relieved of the stare. Cas turned his eyes instead onto the younger Winchester, following the man's arm to where his hand fidgeted towards the bed, where the weapons and angel blades sat.

Dean saw his little brother also, giving a small shake of his head as his hands lowered. "It's fine. Just not a fan of the zapping is all. It's freaky."

"Zapped? Like -" Sam raised his arm, flapping them in a quick motion.

"Flown, yes, Sam," said Cas, "and we're running out of time. I'm sorry, Dean, but flying would be our best option."

Dean shook his head, turning around and scooping up the weapons on the bed. "No way, Jose."

Cas narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth to tell Dean that there was no Jose present, but Sam caught his eye, shaking his head. The two watched the older Winchester as he secured his gun back in his jeans.

"Pack it up, Sammy, looks like we're splittin'."

Cas stood a little straighter, smug; Sam rolled his eyes and went to get his backpack and laptop from the kitchen table.

Dean shouldered the green canvas bag, walking towards Cas, who tried to reach out to him. Dean ducked, skillfully missing the outstretched hand until it was lowered.

"Dean?" Cas asked.

"No flying, Cas."

Sam walked back in, his laptop case hanging off his shoulder. "Dean has a thing about flying," he stage-whispered to the Angel, smirking at Dean's immense bitch-face. A jingle sounded as a set of car keys flew through the air from Sam's open fist towards Dean, who caught it skillfully. "Impala or bust."


	3. Chapter 3

**Previously: **

_"Sam walked back in, his laptop case hanging off his shoulder. 'Dean has a thing about flying,' he stage-whispered to the Angel, smirking at Dean's immense bitch-face. A jingle sounded as a set of car keys flew through the air from Sam's open fist towards Dean, who caught it skillfully. 'Impala or bust.'_ "

XxX

The Impala was normally a roomy car, and had surely held more than two hunters and an Angel before. However, with Castiel sprawled across the whole backseat, leaning over the front headrest to bark out directions, it felt more crowded than Dean could ever remember.

And Cas couldn't have been comfortable back there either; when the brothers had tried to help him into the car, he had pushed them away, muttering about warriors of God not being delicate flowers. It would have been fine, even considering Sam's bitch-face to his brother that seemed to blame him for Cas' attitude about pain, except that the Angel had all but collapsed onto the worn leather, cramped and graceless.

Now, Dean glanced in his rearview mirror and had to wonder how his friend could stand to stay like that for more than a few seconds: he had one elbow braced on the back of the front seat; his neck extending so he was level with the hunters'; his other arm was extended to direct on a turn, and resting on his other during the time between. He was perched on the edge of the bench seat in the back, one of his feet planted on the floor while the other stretched out.

"Cas, you really should sit back," Sam said, pushing a trench coat-clad elbow out of his face, "you'll pull something..." he leaned forward to look at Dean, "Can that even happen?"

Dean took his eyes off the road to meet his baby brother's eyes, "I don't know? We're not even sure what's wrong with him in the first place!"

"Which is why _I _suggested we pull over and find somewhere to fix him up, instead of driving around for two hours while Cas is _bleeding _all over the backseat."

"Where would you like to take him, Sam?" Dean said, his foot subconsciously lowering further on the gas pedal. He purposefully ignored the fact that the blood was going to be a bitch to get out later. "A hospital? And I suppose that you'll explain to the doctor how he got these wounds? And with what? And how he's still _walking_ when he's probably lost half of his blood? You heard him before, he can handle this," Dean turned green eyes back to the road, the white lines blurring before him at an alarming rate. "He has to," he said, low enough that Sam just barely heard it.

"Here," came Cas' voice from the top of the headrest. The arm that had been draped over the leather lifted slowly, almost painfully, to indicate a small dirt road mostly covered over by foliage. The hunters would have missed it if not for the backseat driver; as it is, Dean had to make a sharp turn, making Sam grip the grab-handle and almost unseating Castiel.

The Impala rumbled down the small dirt road at a much slower pace. The further into the growing shrubbery the hunters went, the less light shone in through the windows, the branches folding in one either side and grating on Baby, much to Dean's dismay.

Further and further they went, Sam and Dean casting surreptitious glances at each other more than once. But on they went, as per Cas' quiet instructions from the backseat, until, all at once, the bushes became less oppressing, stopped grating on the car. There was a small clearing - not as picturesque as one would have liked, but rather an eerie, dark place, surrounded by wilted trees and overgrown grass.

In the corner of the little clearing was a ramshackle house made of deep red bricks tarnished with age, and a simple black shingled roof that was missing a few slats.

"Cas?" Dean asked slowly as he put the car in park.

"This is safe," was the Angel's simple reply as he struggled to get himself sitting easier in the cramped space. Sam gave the house a disdainful look until he was forcibly pinned against the windshield; Cas had pushed the back of Sam's seat hard enough to move it out of the way, giving him easier access to the door.

Cas clambered out, the passenger seat falling back into place with a thump. The Angel staggered a few steps, his long trench coat getting stuck under his muddy dress shoes. Dean was next out of the car, just remembering to pull out the keys before vaulting out of his seat and around the hood, leaving his door wide open.

With the help of the newly-freed Sam, the two supported the Fallen Angel as they all walked towards the old house. It was clear Castiel was in much worse shape after the car ride based on just how much more heavily he was leaning on the brothers.

By the time the trio made it to the front door, Cas was all but dragging his feet behind him, his head lolling slightly onto Sam's shoulder.

A light kick was all it took to have the door open slowly, creaking on its hinges. The three trekked inside and laid the Angel down on a musty couch situated just a bit too left to be considered the middle. Cas rolled to face the back of the couch, curling in on himself.

Sam and Dean stood over the couch, staring at their Fallen friend. Neither knew what to do, and couldn't even contact anyone who would know - Castiel was still a wanted Angel up in Heaven, and the Angels up there wouldn't bat an eyelash to help their friend, or worse, they'd speed up the process.

So, they did what they knew instead.

"I got demons, you get Angels?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, his eyes never fully leaving his friend. The two walked blindly through the small room, finally finding the same way they came in. A quick trip to the Impala was all it took for the boys to get the gear they would need to proof the house.

Sam hauled in a bag of rock salt and white paint, while Dean carried with him two cans of red spray paint. They got to work, their minds relaxing as the two fell into the familiar creation of lines and painting of symbols and sigils.

When they were done, and their spray cans exhausted, Sam and Dean were about ready to pass out themselves. Looking around the small room, they realized that, besides the already-occupied couch, there was no other furniture compatible to sleep on. There was, however, a rather large arm chair, covered with a sheet, that would not be the most comfortable place to sleep, but would be much better than the floor.

Needless to say, Dean was the one to grab a sleeping bag from his Baby.

*.*.*.*.*

The next morning found Dean wide awake, watching the sun rise through the splintered window. Sam was sleeping soundly in the armchair, his head thrown back, one leg spread out straight in front of him, the other wrapped over the arm, nearly touching the floor.

Dean knew that Sam hadn't slept as soundly as he looked, having woken up periodically throughout the night, The younger Winchester would jerk awake, the old chair squeaking with every movement as he stood, padding quietly from room to room, sometimes checking on the Angel, sometimes simply walking around the room before resettling. Dean stayed still during these times, his decades of hunting waking him at any and all sounds, knowing that if his little brother saw him, Sam would insist on talking about what happened: about Cas, about Dad, about Hell, the Apocalypse - all the things Dean would have no trouble locking in a strong box and never thinking of again.

But, as Dean's interrupted sleep came to an end with the rising sun, he knew there was no forgetting and no pretending. About Cas, at least.

He stood up, stretching, joints popping from his rough sleeping quarters. He walked as quietly as he could, tiptoeing around his brother, keeping his eyes on the sleeping Angel as he passed the couch.

Cas looked better, maybe not as pale as he was yesterday, though still not as he was before the hunt. His still bloodied clothes didn't help the matter either, adding to the look of sickness that clung around him like smoke.

Dean shuffled to the small sink in the corner. It was a dusty, dirty little thing, the handles all rusty and tainted. His hand hovered over the handle. Dean stooped his head, making up his mind.

Pushing himself from the small counter, he walked the few steps back to the sleeping Angel. He stood over Cas, his mind troubled as he stared at his friend.

It just didn't make sense: Cas was an Angel of the Lord, no matter how much Grace was lost - even when he was slowly Falling, when his life-force, the thing that made Cas _Cas, _was slowly, painfully leaking out of him - Cas was never human. Not like this. He didn't sleep like this. There hadn't been a wound in the years that the Winchesters knew him that hadn't healed in record time. A day, sure, Dean could give Castiel a day to recover, a day and a half, tops. But this was just ridiculous.

Kneeling down, Dean reached a hand out, laying it gently on the Angel's side just above the gauze wrapped snuggly around his middle. Dean took a deep breath to steady himself before, confident that Cas wouldn't be waking anytime soon, he fitted his fingers between the wrappings, breaking the gauze and exposing the skin underneath.

Well, what skin was left, at least.

The skin underneath was all but disintegrated under the bandage, the edges of the gouge ripped and ragged, red and raw. The cut itself wasn't fatally deep - Dean knew from experience just how far a blade would have to go to hit anything major - though it still, after two days, glistened and dripped with blood, the usually red liquid tinged with a certain silver, making it almost shimmer in the moonlight. It took Dean a moment to realize that the silver was, in fact, bits of Castiel's Grace leaking from his vessel.

The cut itself was only about the length of Dean's hand from fingertip to wrist, a wound that would ordinarily be stitched up by one of the brothers and left to heal on its own. However, that didn't seem to be working in Cas' case.

When the Winchesters had first dragged Castiel into their motel room, they ran their normal routine, treating the Angel the same way they would a fellow hunter (maybe not for a victim or witness; people not in the business tended to get a bit squeamish during in-house DIY medical procedures. But hey, what are hospitals for, right?), including disinfecting, stitching, and dressing. But after only a few hours waiting for Cas to wake and much before he demanded the trio moved, Sam checked Castiel's condition. It was almost exactly the same as it was before it was treated: the stitches dissolved, raggedy edges poking out of each end, determined to leave some trace that they were ever there at all, and, with nothing holding the tattered skin together, it reverted the gash back to Open-Wound Status.

Much was the same for the other three wounds dotting his chest and the two lining his arm.

It did look a bit better now, Dean conceded, not as harsh, though that was largely due to Cas' complexion getting slightly back to its natural tan.

A bit of blood dripped onto the hunter's hand, reflecting back at him in the morning light. Dean had the thought to reapply some of the antibacterial, maybe even try to resew the wounds, but decided against it, simply taping the bandage back into place with careful fingers. Sam was always better at that stuff anyway.

Instead, he walked back to the sink, turning the water on without hesitation. The pipes, probably not used in years, squeaked, the water taking a minute to run clear before he dared to dive his hands under. Dean took a few gulps, the water flowing easily down his throat before collecting more in his hands and scrubbing his face.

Turning his back to the counter, Dean slid all the way down, his legs tucked tight in front of him. He looked at the room around him - really looked at it, from his little brother laying cramped in an old armchair, clouds of dust puffing out from under his boot with every movement, to the ratty, mildew-stained rug that Dean had flipped at a corner, revealing the splintered and uneven floorboards. It looked quite sad, he thought to himself, in the dim light, the wallpaper peeling at the corners, the glass of the window next to the door cracked, not to mention his best friend laying all but dead on the couch.

They were hiding out in this abandoned, ramshackle, about to collapse house from demons that wanted to kill them. Baby's paint was probably scratched from the countless branches they hit getting here, her backseat covered in the blood of his best friend. His best friend who happened to be an Angel of the Lord, stabbed and cut with an angel blade which left him unresponsive and comatose on a ratty old couch. His best friend who may be slowly dying while he sat and did nothing.

Dean put his head in his hands as he realized that this was actually his life.

Which is exactly how Sam found his brother when he woke up a few hours later.

"Dude?" he asked, squatting down and putting a hand on his brother's arm. Dean raised his head. "You okay?"

Dean nodded, cleared his throat, and said, "Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I'm fine."

Wobbling to his feet, Dean stood, waving away his brother's helpful hands. He rolled his eyes at Sam's concerned look, walking forward towards Cas's makeshift bed.

"I checked his chest earlier," he said, turning to his brother. "Couldn't sleep."

Sam nodded in understanding, "How'd they look?"

"Same as before: stitching gone, nasty cut." The brothers paused, looking at each other. "I just don't get it," Dean said, running a frustrated hand through his hair as Sam stepped up to the sleeping Angel. "He's been hit by angel blades before, it's never been like this."

"I have no idea, Dean." he carefully undid the bandaging, much the same as Dean only a few hours before. "Maybe they were different blades? I mean, we didn't really get a good look at them." He looked at the wounds, making a face at the state of the gash.

Dean rubbed his eyes, "Right about now, in any other case, we'd be calling Bobby."

"Or Cas," Sam added. "This sucks."

***.*.*.*.*.***

"Dean, there's not going to be anything!"

"C'mon, Sammy, it's worth a shot!"

Sam pulled his jacket from his brother's hands, "Why would there be an explanation in the _library?_ Have you _ever_ seen anything _real_ on Angels? Or did I miss that section?"

"Well, maybe we could find something!" the shorter man yelled back.

"Like what? '_Caring For Your Sick Angel For Dummies'_? Be serious here, Dean."

"Then what would you suggest, Sam?" Sam didn't answer, his jaw clenching. "Exactly. We are out of ideas, Cas is hurt and is not waking up. If it was you or me on that couch - " Dean paused for just the slightest of seconds, the thought of Sam switching places with their Angel making him balk, " - you know Cas would use every option available."

His little brother looked away, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"Right. Now put this on, we're going to the library," Dean shoved Sam's jacket at him, the younger Winchester taking it on instinct. Dean walked the perimeter, checking all the sigils painted there before going to the door. "Sammy? C'mon, we're wasting daylight here."

Dean was waiting by the door, holding it open for the other, the cold morning breeze flooding in.

Sam looked at him, and his brother could just see the wheels turning. When Sam spoke, it was softly, "What if there was another way? A faster way?"

He pushed the door, closing it with a soft slam, "Like what?"

"Think about it, Dean, Cas is an Angel. Who better to help him than other Angels?"

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed, "'cause the ones we met were _so _helpful. You know, I'll bet they'll just line right up to help Cas out; they'll help him right into a grave."

"Just listen to me, Dean," Sam argued. "There's not going to be anything in the library. I know it and you know it. We have no idea what's going on, and neither does anyone born and raised on this Earth. Nothing here can help."

"Sure, yeah, but, Sammy, the Angels hate us. They want to kill us. They want to kill _Cas_."

Sam shook his head, an unfamiliar smirk crossing his features, "Not of all them. Not Joshua."

"Joshua? Seriously, Sam?" The younger Winchester said nothing, just standing there with his smirk, one shoulder lifting. "The man hasn't been out of Heaven in more than a millennia."

That fact didn't seem to bother him, "So we'll make him come down. Wouldn't be the first time we summoned an Angel against their will."

He watched his older brother walk to the armchair in the corner, sitting down with a sigh, his elbows braced on his knees. "You're suggesting that we summon Joshua, the only direct connection to _God_, from the _Garden of Eden_ to Earth?" Sam nodded. "And if, for some reason, we actually do get him down here, you want to force him to _not _kill us, and help us save Castiel, a Fallen Angel."

"Yeah."

Dean watched his brother in silence for a few minutes, almost as if waiting for Sam to see the flaw in his plan. And even though his older brother's gaze made him the tiniest bit uncomfortable, it wasn't going to work. Sam had faith in his plan - well, more faith than the library idea. Plus, he was a lawyer at heart; the training may be buried in the way back of his mind, but it was still there, and lawyers love to argue, and hate to lose.

"You said that Cas would use any option available for either of us. You said that if it was me on that couch you'd try anything. We've been in countless libraries across the country, there's never been anything substantial about Angels in any of them. That's why we always called on Bobby when things like this happened: he had hundreds of rare, one-of-a-kind, never before seen in languages only a handful of people can read." Here, Sam paused, letting all that sink in before continuing, "This is our anything. Joshua is the only Angel that we know of that is completely neutral - he's connected to God, noncommittal even in the Apocalypse and the Angelic Civil War. He's the most likely to help instead of playing Russian Roulette with who's going to smite Cas."

The two brothers were silent for a while, at a stand off.

Finally, the elder spoke, "Do we even know how to summon him?" He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing over his eyes.

This time, Sam smiled and threw on his jacket, "It shouldn't be that different from any other Angel."

XxX


End file.
